I’m your hound, Sansa And you’re my bird
by Bittersweet-sandor
Summary: Sandor clegane, she rolled the word on her tongue. Who could have guessed, that a man so brutal, could one day share the same ardour as someone like Loras tyrell. Was it true what he said? Or was it another dream?
1. Chapter 1

His hands ran over her skin, the pads of his thumb worn and calloused. They felt rough, ragged when he dragged his forefinger down to the dip in her dress.

She shuddered, "Ser Sandor?" And he gave out an angry groan.

"I ain't no Ser, Little bird. Gods be good if you remember that," His voice was a snarl and he let out a dog-like Laugh when she pulled away.

He gazed down at her, eyes like ashen rain, before taking a lock of auburn hair, liquid fire, and rubbing it between two fingers.

He gave her a look, the kind of look she had only ever heard songs about, the kind of look to which only lovers exchange.

He lifted his head down, and she placed her lips against the hard sliver of scars. He reared his head back, and she gave him a small smile, as if she was a lamb coaxing a wolf as if in plea.

"Thank you, Sandor." She whispered, her voice carried away by the screams and cries of the battle. He gave her a sly glance, before pushing her back.

"Why'd you do that," He said gruffly, eyes flickerig suspiciously.

She gazed up at him, confused.

"I-I-I

She looked down to the floor.

"I don't know."

He shook his head, black tendrils of unruly hair scattering past his face, like a halo of darkness that shrouded his burns from light.

She was thankful for it, so she didn't have to look at his reaction, but at the same, she wished she could know whaf thoughts ran through his depraved mind.

She looked up again, the bristled black lashes fluttering, gracing her face with prims of blue, before she snapped them shut.

"Goodnight, sandor." She whispered, and backed away into the shadows.

He nodded slowly at her, and listened to the screams from the battle.

Green rise rising with a pungent smoke, shone menacingly from the window.

He peered out, casting the burning hell around him a dark glare.

"Yes, Good night indeed." He said harshly.

"Little bird."


	2. Chapter 2

"Little bird,"

The voice, like a stone grating against steel, rang loudly throughout the room. The screams and cries of battle had silenced, and she was alone, no-one but the whispers of wind had decided to keep her company, but even now, with the winter storms inching closer, they too had vanished.

The windows were open, to let in fresh air, but the curtains were drawn tight, unwilling to let even a sliver of pale moonlight in.

The voice whispered again, "Little bird." And she sat up, back straight as an iron poker, no, - _A bow_ \- flexible, less stiff and stern.

"Yes," She replied as the door creaked open on ita hinges.

She heard the door close, breathed in the heady scent of wine and ale, so strong it made her head swim, and then footsteps emerged, shortly after the bolt on her door was slid into place.

 _Locked_.

"Oh, gods little bird." He rasped, as he stumbled forwards.

He nearly fell, straight into her arms, but she reached out, ready to catch his immense weight, but the burden never came, never dropped, only air, sweet nothingness, cast a soft pillow in her arms.

He walked closer, and sat down on her bed, "I have a hunger, little bird." And she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"Pardon, ser?" And He guffawed.

"I ain't no 'Ser'. I spit on them, and their bleeding vows, when will you realise that I ain't no god-forsaken knight!" and she cast her gaze to the floor, unaware of his drunken stupor.

"I-I..." she paused, catching herself once again.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, and raised her hand.

He stayed perfectly still, stoic and stonelike, a mold of a monstrous statue, barely moving an inch, as her hamd came rest on his cheek.

"I missed you, Sandor." She whispered, and his laugh, a deep rumbling from the pit of his stomach, resurfaced. "Really, doesn't that ice rimmed arse still leak when I speak?" And she winced.

"Why must you always be so crude, and uncouth?" She said heatedly, taking her hand away.

But, quick as a snake snapping the last of its prey, his fingers curled around her wrist, and brought them to his mouth.

He kissed the tips of her fingers, his eyes bleary from lack of light, and smiled.

"Gods be good, little bird." He whispered.

"You taste delicious," and licked down the entirety of her hand, past her wrist, down to her arm. Planting warm kisses, soft and wet from the hot confines of his mouth, he dipped lower, before stopping at her neck. Making his way upwards, tilting her chin just so, so that it rested evenly in his hands, he encaptured her mouth with his own.

His member, hard against his breeches, pushed stiffly against her ladys area, when he pulled her roughly onto his lap. She gasped at the unfamilar sensation, it tickled her, and she blinked.

He laughed throatily, "does it feel nice, my lady." He mocked, and she frowned when he pulled away.

She wanted more, and clutched at his chest as the ache between her legs deepened. She moved again, up against his crouch, a soft, slow movement, and felt the sensation slip into her core, from the confines of her stomach, until it grew alarmingly, despairingly... _good._

He tilted her neck to the side, and licked her neck gently _The sweet spot, he thought with a chuckle, as she whimpered faintly._

He smiled, "Does my lady like that?" And she whispered a light, breathy, "yes." From that word, his gaze deepened and he let out a throaty groan.

She moved again, her hips sliding upwards, against his own, and he spluttered incoherently, "Gods, little bird. I'm going to spurt," and she blinked innocently.

Just then, when his hands grasped harshly at her budding breasts, the door creaked open.

"Bloody hell," He cried and sandor crawled from sansa.

Jamie lannister, she paled.


	3. Chapter 3

The door creaked open, _Sandor didn't lock it_ , Sansa thought fearfully, and suddenly the shadow morphed into someone else, the golden hair was gone, the tall stature shrouded away to reveal a dwarf, and Jamie Lannister fell to the floor. "Seven hells," The man said and tried his best to hoist the man over his shoulder. Sansa peered harder, _The imp._

Suddenly, light broke through the rooms dark confines, and Tyrion stood, dropping his brother to the floor, where he gave out a drunken groan. "This- is-not-my-chambers-is-it?" He said slowly, and scratched his mop of hair in confusion. "Lady Sansa?" He asked, and she gave out a small, whimper.

"Yes, my lord." She said softly, and he raised his eyes in alarm. Only then, when light peaked through a crack in the window, he saw not just one body, but two. He wanted to look away, but curiosity to who lady Sansa would let into her chambers was slowly driving him mad. lying there in her bed, with the covers flung down, and her nightgown hoisted to her waist, so that he could see her lacy undergarments, Only then did he realise there was two lying there, and not just one.

Slowly it dawned on him, and his face grew into a picture of shock, and he held his sword in one hand, the other rested firmly on the doorknob, until he let go of it, and slid his sword, gleaming In the dark, back into it scabbard. The man, reeking of ale and wine, gave a loud cough, and shifted around in his armour. Tyrion caught a glance of the hideous burns, "Sandor Clegane," He almost laughed. _Almost,_ He thought with a wry smile. He straightened up, and shook his head. "Lady Sansa," He said courteously, and bowed down low.

"I had better get my brother back to his chambers, he seems to have too much wine." He said politely, and turned around, before turning back to face them, and gave Sansa a long look. "Lady sansa," He began.

"I understand Joffrey may cause you great suffering, so I don't blame you for seeking the affection of... Er… _others,"_ He said meaningfully, and continued. "But don't forget to use moontea, my dear. I would hate for you to be so... trapped," He added with a sarcastic smile, and slammed the door shut.

Sandor, finally sobering up, glared at her. "This never happened Sansa. Understand?" And she couldn't help the hot tear as it slipped down past her cheek. "Yes," She said sadly, weakly, and pushed her nightgown back down. He gave her a reproving look, "Lock you're doors from now on. And don't let anyone in, Me included." He said bitterly, and stormed out.

Sansa sniffed, brushing away the tear, as it glittered like glass upon her fingertips, and pulled the covers up to her chin, before turning around on her side, and settling down for sleep. Somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled at the moon, sensing the loss of its owner.

Lady, She thought happily, but then it dawned on her.

Lady was dead.

But, from within the deep, desolate confines of the rubble torn walls of Winterfell, a wolf ran onwards.

Its coat, grey like the winter winds, shone from the moon, and its eyes, burning yellow, shone from the blackness of the night.

It howled once more, _Lady._


	4. Chapter 4

As she sat in the great hall, with the king by her side and the queen on the other, her pain slipped into sadness. She watched sandor, but he seemed to have no time for her today.

Oh how it hurt, to watch him look by her, as though their night of intimacy had meant nothing.

Oh, How the knive drove deeper, twisting and pulling, shattering her heart like crimson glass.

She wanted to cry.

But that wasn't the worst of it, the worst was at night, when she stole from her chambers in the dark, and headed to the gods-wood to pray.

Muffled grunts, a woman moaning loudly in the grass, and Sansa grew alarmed. She watched in fascination, as the man, tall, his face shrouded from light, jerked the woman back, and pushed himself to the hilt.

He looked up, holding her hair, her face contorted, jaw slack, eyes draping shut. Sansa couldn't look away, even when the voice cried, "S-Sandor! Oh, gods. Sandor!"

The womans voice was high and nasally, and she had long hair, golden blonde, that hung down by her bosom. _So he prefered blondes, s_ he grew sad at thatthought

Sansa must have spoken, for he looked up, eyes wild and blind from lust, and picked up his pace. Faster, and faster, jamming his hips to her with each shattering thrust.

Until finally he reached his peak, and pulled out, ever so slowly, and Sansa blushed.

She stared, she couldn't help it.

It was so big. So thick and long, it might as well have been his arm, and she wondered how on earth it would ever fit.

A prickling heat intensified from withing her legs, and she bit her lip to silence a whimper.

But he must've heard her, because he reared back, appalled. "Sansa?" He cried, and pulled away from the girl. She shrugged on her clothes, and scarped away quick. Whores weren't welcome at the godswoods, even moon boy knew that.

Sanda ran, deeper into the forest, but she stumbled, and fell, onto the ground.

She held her breath, as footsteps stopped beside her. "What in buggering hell are you doing out, girl." He spat, tightening the laces on his breeches.

She fought the urge to stare at his length, the leather of his trousers tight against the bulge taunting her. She bit her lip, "To pray My lord." And he scoffed.

"To pray," he mimicked making his voice go squeaky. "Pray my arse. Buggering hell," he laughed.

"I bet you just wanted a glimpse of my cock." And her mouth hung open. She stared at him, shocked.

"H-How dare you," she stuttered, gazing up at him with tully blue eyes. _Those eyes_ , he regarded.

 _Too big and blue, judging like her mothers, but sweeter than her own liking. Innocent too, one thing he could barely stand_.

He paused, and licked the corner of his mouth, before rolling his tongue across his lip, and bit down on the scarred side. She swallowed, "I was only coming to pray." And she stood up, tall as ever, long neck stretching upwards to repel against her fear.

Or maybe it wasn't fear, simply nervoucness.

He was, of course, shirtless, and his battle-scarred chest, still gleaming with sweat, looked as though it had been carved by gods. He was muscular, almost too muscular, too strong, that was clear when he grabbed her by the arm.

"Not so fast little bird." He taunted her, and pulled gently at the strings of her nightgown, she shuddered. He watched her, and ran his finger down the dip of her collarbone, before surging forth, and plunging downwards to take a grasp at her breast.

She gasped, "Sandor!" She said sharply, and he grinned. Pushing her against a tree, the bark scraping her back, he growled like a dog. "Easy, little bird. Calm down, and I swear you'll enjoy it." He told her, as he rolled a pink nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

She gasped, shuddering for breath, when he tore her nightgown from her shoulders. The fabric, gauzy and white, ripped, and she gulped.

Placing his mouth, temptingly hot, against her neck, he slid his tongue out, and licked her collarbone. Delving deeper, she grasped at his hair, when he went down on his knees, and took a firm, rosy nipple into his mouth.

He sucked on it hungrily, and she mewled like a kitten, when his hand, coarse and calloused, moved to from under her back, to tweak upon her chest.

He bit at her, and faint marks formed, lilac against white, and he gave a nod of approval when soft, breathy gasps formed.

He stripped her of her dress, what was left of it, and set her to rest on the ground. She looked at him anxiously, and he pulled his hand from her breast, to trail across her northern lips. She shivered, "It feels strange." She admitted, and he smirked.

"Don't you worry, little bird." He muttered hoarsely, as he crouched down, laying flat on his stomach, so he could a fair view of her cunt.

"Pretty and pink, best cunt there is." He said with a sly grin, and placed a kiss upon her thigh. She blushed, thankfull of the dark, so he couldn't see her shame.

 _But,_ she mused

 _How could something so shameful, be so deliciously good_?

Her thoughts ended, when his tongue darted out, to lick at her steadily.

She gasped, "W-What are you doing?" And bit down on her lip. Her head began to swim, and he grasped at her breast with one hand, as the other dipped lower, before sliding into her folds with one slow, absoloutly devine movement.

She nearly died then, when he placed his finger inside, but she stiffled her screams of rapture, and let the slow rhythm of euphoria spread around her like rain, until she was totally submersed in it.

"Is it nice, little bird." He growled between licks, "To have me sit between you're legs, and lick at you're cunt?" She nodded, suddenly aware of the promiscuity of the situation.

"Then you can please me afterwards." He told her with a grin, as he pulled away. She recoiled at his sudden movement, and then flung herself at him.

"What." She panted, desperate for more of his attention. "Do you mean?" He bit his lip, and stood up tall.

He let his breeches fall, and she sat up on her knees expectantly. She was confused, to when he guided her closer, and took her hand in his own.

"You're going to suck my cock." He told her with a groan.

"And by the gods, little bird. I'm going to enjoy it." He paused, looking at her in the eye, and ran a hand through her hair.

"Every second of it."


	5. Chapter 5

He threaded his hands through her hair, each strand seperating into prisms of titian and crimson, russet and sandalwood, before he slammed his eyes shut.

"Gods, Little bird." He murmured, pleasure soaking his words. He licked the rim of his lips, "You're good. Believe my words, Lass. You're good."

She blushed at that, cheeks filling with red, as a rosy flush scattered across her milk skin.

It had been two moons since that night in the godswood, where he had _'licked at her cunt'_ he would say, rather crudely.

It was hard, having to hide a different place each noght, but she couldn't say she disliked what happebef afterwards.

It had all happened so soon, she mused, as she walked past the courtroom. He had been there, sipping on a flagon of ale, form slumped across the steps, but whrn he saw her walking by, he latched his hand around her waist, and buried his face in her hair.

"Little bird." He whispered, biting on her neck.

She relaxed when she heard his voice, and he removed the hand covering her mouth.

She sighed, when his hand dropped the flagon of wine, and grabbed a handful of her breast.

He groaned against her neck, pressing his crouch against the back of her thighs, sliding his hips upwards, until he was pressed firmly against her arse, perfect and pert beneath her silks. He ground against her, slow and steady movements, and nipped the flesh at her earlobe.

She whimpered, as the hard thing rubbed faster, worseted wool covered his stiff member, and he grunted.

"Gods little bird." He panted, hands gripping the sides of her hips, pulling her onto him with force. She mewled like a kitten, when one of his fingers, large and deft, slid beneath her dress, past her sheer lace shift, and into her undergarnments.

He rubbed at the hood of her womans place, sliding gently, before delving forwards, and placing his finger _inside_ her folds.

She covered her mouth with her hands, as a small wail erupted from tightly closed lips. Her body shook, his teeth nipped at her neck and jaw, he was thrusting back and forth with the hard _thing_ positioned neatly on her arse.

He snickered, and rubbed her again, tracing his fingers in and out of her folds, the walls of her womans place clenching against his thick digit.

He smirked, "You're dripping." And laughed,before returning to his previous actions.

Slow at first, as a knuckle brushed her bare backside, sliding in and out with each slick, steady rhythm, she began to feel drowsy.

"Oh." She cried, clamping a hand over her mouth.

It was too much.

His finger in her folds, his hand caressing her breast so gently, and his hips thrusting forwards into her own.

She bit down on her lip, "please... I'm going to faint... S-Sandor..."

She whined, her body convulsing, until she grew weak, limbs like the branches of a drooping willow, and fell flat, backwards, against his chest.

He kissed her cheek, "Meet me in my chambers. Tonight, when the moon is at its highest." And, with a throaty groan, he departed, leaving her to her own devices.

She grinned sheepishly, at the dampness trickling from her legs in small drops, like summer rain, and scurried off to her chambers.

Picking up a large vial of scented oils, she combed it through her hair.

Sandor liked her getting dressed up, and tonight...

 _She could barely think straight._

 _Would she even be able to walk, when he..._

She shook her head, and seperated a few strands of hair, braiding it deftly into a thick, tidy dutch twisted plait.

Peeling a few flowers from a nearby plant, she threaded them, green and purple, through her hair.

Smiling, she gazed into the mirror.

"Tonight is going to be special." She told herself with a rose blush, hands moving gently over the lilac mark on her neck.

She paused, and glared back at her reflection.

"Tonight... _will_ be special." And fled the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandors chambers were large.

Packed tightly with each corner of the room holding something other than space. His bed was wide as well as long, _it isn't really a riddle is it. He is tall,_ she thought, as she gazed around the room placidly.

On the the dresser, intricate and ornate, lay a pile of thick backed books.

She ran her finger, small and slender, down the spine of one. "The Tales of Lady Rosalind, and Rolf Rainne." She paused, and turned to meet his gaze.

"You read?" And he chuckled darkly, "I'm not some disease-infested runt from flea-bottom, Am I?" She shook her head, and picked the book up.

It was heavy, the pages fingerworn from turning the pages too often, the corners creased and well thumbed. She trailed her finger down the cover, it was a muted sage green, with deep swirls and wrought of gold. It was pretty, she decided.

He took the book from her hands, and laid it rest on the dresser. She bit down on her lip, as he took her hands in his own. She smiled, "I didn't take you for a man who read romance." She teased, and he frowned.

"It was my mothers." He said sullenly, and drew his gaze to the book. She placed a hand across his shoulder, inching forwards to stroke the stubble of his chin, and placed a kiss, sweet and soft and warm, from the hot confines of her mouth, on the sliver of hard scars layn rest on his cheek.

"What happened to her?" She murmured, as his fingers came to fold beneath her chin. He tilted her jaw upwards, as grey flames danced within his eyes, "You won't find out from me, little bird." And encaptured her mouth with his own.

He groaned against her mouth, sliding his hands beneath her waist, scooping her up like a babe, and she knitted her legs firmly around his hips. He cradled her, latching onto skin, planting firm kisses against ivory flesh, until they deepened to the colour of wine.

He grunted in approval. "Sweetest thing there is." He murmured, seemingly to himself, when her hands sought him out. She gasped, when his mouth came to rest above the dip in her dress. "What." She panted, "is the sweetest thing?" He laughed, soft and loving, like how loras had laughed in the joust.

She remember his hair, caramel brown and softening curls, and his eyes of rich gold. But then she remembered it was Sandor who helped her against Joffrey, not him, and smiled.

It was _his_ hands that were pleasing to the touch, strong snd sturdy beneath the metal of his gloves.

It was _his_ eyes that were searching her body so thouroughly, as he ripped apart her dress by the seams, and she felt the cold air stiffen her nipples to firm peaks.

He laughed, and cupped her breast with his mailed hand. The touch send spirals of rapture through her, icy twists shooting down ber spine, rendering her still and silent, as he laboured over her body.

He dropped his trousers, and watched as she swallowed, her eyes widening until they looked as though she had two pools for eyes, and her jaw near hit the floor.

"You're cunt can handle my cock, Little bird." He said gruffly, and pushed her back down. Her form hit the soft feather matress, as she pushed her tongue against the flat curve of her top teeth.

She inhaled, trying to work out what smell was driving her mad.

 _Was it the faint woody smell, like he had been running all day in the forest, with mud sloshing against his boots?_

 _Or was it ale, strong and sour, that made him smell so... delicious?_

 _No,_ she thought firmly.

 _It was his sweat, as it soaked the mail of his armour, and stroked his chest with a glimmering sheen._

She smiled, but it was uneasy, and she showed too many teeth for it to be true. It was, however, a pretty smile. _By the gods, was it a pretty smile._

His eyes, dancing grey flames of flickering light, peeled back the last shreds of fabric from her body, as his hands did what they bid. He sucked in a breath, and palmed the smooth flesh of his cock.

He looked at her hungrily, "Spread you're legs girl." He instructed, and she did, slowly, unsurely. He rolled his eyes, huffing an imperious sigh, as he took his hands at each knee, and split her legs almost in half.

It didn't hurt, _dreams never hurt_ , she thought sadly, as tears welled beneath tightly shut lids. She clamped her eyes shut, tighter than before, but traitorous tears slid loose, and down her cheek. He looked at her, worried.

"Litte bird?" He said softly, as tucked a finger below her chin. "Why are you crying?" His voice was a melody of drama and turmoil, as his tone generated sadness, deep within the coils of her mind.

She sobbed harder, "You're not real." And he swallowed, but it was painful to watch, and not be able to comfort. _This was only a dream, a beautiful, enchanting, wild and lewd fantasy of her own devising, but it was a dream nonethless_.

And for this she cried.

He encaptured her in his arms, "I know. You'll have You're chance one day, Little bird. I promise you that." He began, silencing her sobs with a deep, meaningful kiss.

She felt herself fold into submission, delicate, fragile, the cool petals of a rose, plucked from the gardens of House Tyrell

She swallowed a sob _A beautiful, bewitching flower, with dew drops of silver and gold, and a stem of emerald green.- Sandor thought affectionately, as he felt tears of ice drop from her ink lashes._

He paused, "I'm not real, but I will be." He told her, as if in reassurance. She nodded slowly, her lips turning into a sad, small smile, eyes deeping to a forlorn blue. "You're not real." She echoed, letting the reality of it all sink in.

He nodded, "I'm still You're hound lass. You're still my bird, beautiful as the long summer after an even longer winter." He looked down at her, as he melted into darkness.

"I'm You're hound, and you're my bird."

"I'm You're hound, and you're my bird."

"I'm You're hound, and you're my bird."

She awoke with a start, face crestfallen, heart broken, as her dream faded to nothing more than a childs charade at games. "Oh sandor." She sobbed, and brought the silk covers to hide beneath them.

She wanted to scream and cry, tear her hair, crimson flames, from the roots, until she bled. Even now, in the faint moonlight that shone into her room, a halo of milk rays, her tears looked fake.

"Oh, sandor." She weeped, as the cloak of white and grey sat upon her bed, a burden of misery.

He was gone, left earlier that day, and where was she?

Stuck with joffrey, a bird without wings, cheeping for help.

She was Trapped, and her hound was gone.

He was gone, _her_ hound . . . Had left.


	7. Chapter 7

She fretted over her skirts, smoothing down the green satin despairingly, making sure she looked her best for meeting King Joffrey in his solar.

A sharp knock came from the door, and the voice that spoke was brittle and nasal. "Ser Boros." Said the man, and he pounded on the door with his fist.

"Permission to enter. Lady Sansa?" She swallowed, "You may enter." Was her voice, soft and fragile as a doves wings, as it swept to his hearing. She held the small locket chain in her hand, twas meant to be a gift for 'dear Joffrey' but after he beat her bloody, she saw that he was not deserving of it.

The metal felt cool against the clamminess of her palms, she took a deep breath, as he entered her chambers. "You look handsome today, Ser Boros." She told him politely, but it was a lie, and her septa had always told her not to tell lies.

The man nodded, "Follow me." And she hesitated. He clucked his teeth together angrily, and pulled her by the arm. She swallowed, _I have no choice, and_ she followed him down the winding stairwell, through the twisting corridors, until they came to a halt. Sandor clegane, with his twisted scars, and harsh grey eyes, stood outside. He had a sword in one hand, the other was pushed behind his back.

Sandor sneered, "I'll take it from here boros." He saw the fingers tightened around her wrist, and the faint marks that would eventually bruise over. He growled out an insult, "Let her go, you old cunt. Or do I have to slice my way through you?" The man pursed his lips together.

He paused, "So be it Clegane. I'll leave," and he turned back and into a corner. She did not know where he went, she did not want to.

Sandor regarded her coolly with eyes of steel, "I'll be right outside this door, Little bird. Call on me if needed, I'll be there." His voice was softer, sad and remorseful, and he placed a finger at the side of her mouth.

He pulled the corners, "Smile prettily now. I won't have Joff hurting you for something smaller than a smile." But somehow, she couldn't even smirk.

Sandor saw this, and his voice deepened until it grew hoarse.

"Come now, Little bird." Was his voice, grating as stone. He drew his hand back, "Smile for _me."_ She swallowed, gazing deep into the swirls and dancing flames of ice and steel, as he retreated from the door.

She forced on a smile, but tears threatened to bloom from her eyes. "Yes." She told him, blinking frantically to keep up the charade of naivety. Her eyes graced her face with blue, and her lashes were inky and black.

He placed his mouth by her ear, it felt hot against her skin, burning flames torching her skin. She remembered the dreams she'd been having, and flushed red with shame.

He swallowed, _so close . . . So close Sansa is, and yet you may never touch her._ He cleared his throat, as his voice dropped to a whisper, like the autum wind that shakes the russet leaves from the drooping branches; To ready itself for winter.

Sandor placed his thumb against her cheek, and rubbed down to her jawline comfortingly. She swallowed, "You'll be right outside this door?" And He nodded.

"You won't leave me, Sandor?"

"No, Little bird. I won't leave you." There was a pause, the silence so still if you broke it, it would crack like ice.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes, "If joffrey hurts me . . . Would you help me?"

He sucked in a breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What don't you understand, Little bird?"

"You, I don't understand you."

He laughed, "Nor I you. Sansa, girl . . . I'd throw myself from a tower, If only you asked."

Her face was set into stone, but her lip quivered, and tears fell in fat droplets.

She sobbed, "You would kill him if I asked?" And he smiled sadly, "For you, little bird?" He whispered. "I'd kill them all." He wiped away her tears gently,

"Dry those tears, lass. I can't stand you so upset, but I can't say the same for Joffrey." He let out a angry sigh, "That boys a sadistic fool If I ever met one, but all men are fools once you chop off their heads."

He laughed at that, cold and sharp, and she winced.

He saw, and kissed her on the cheek. His lips were cool, and cold; A ghosts kiss, and he pressed his mouth to her ear once more.

"I'm You're bird." She weeped, and he swallowed, nodding. He wrapped a lock of hair around his finger, "And I'm You're hound."

He kissed her again, but it had no warmth and no love, it was empty.

He drew to his towering height, and glared down at her. "Come now, Little bird. Joffs waiting," and pushed her into the lions den.


	8. Chapter 8

Joffrey sat on his bed glumly, until he heard the tell-Tale creak from the door. Sansa entered calmly, and smiled for him. He spooned another mouthful of hot soup into his mouth, "I'm ill." He declared, and laughed.

She blinked, "what must you find so funny, You're grace?" And he beckoned her closer with a long finger. She hesitated, right _outisde that door, I'll be right putsode that door._

She didn't want to come closer, or even look at him with his ugly worm lips or his shrewd beetle green eyes. "Come here, Or do I have to call for ser meryn!"

She stepped forwards, "Yes Joffrey." Her voice was stiff, ice cold, the epitome of stern. He bridled at her tone, but waved it away with a swift flick of his hand.

"I plan on marrying you to someone else." He glared at her, and watched slowly as hope gradually slipped into her gaze. His eyes were fiery beacons of vignette, and he hounded out an insult. "The man I'll wed you to is the fiercest in the kingdom!

He'll . . . He'll . . . He'll rip you apart if you start rutting." He screamed, until her gaze dropped, and she forced on a sad smile.

"You're grace, Must I not marry you?" She said gently, taking a step backwards. He sneered, and placed his soup bowl on the table next to him. His lips twitched into a scowl, brain ticking away quickly to see what evil scheme he could come up with.

She paused, "Who is it I will be marrying?" When her situation quickly became real. "Gregor clegane," she asked him, the draping lilt of horror folding her words in panic. He shook his head lazily, "No. Idiot girl, Clegane is dead." He glared at her through lazy, red rimmed eyes.

"You'll be marrying the hound."


	9. Chapter 9

His hands were rough, calloused, as the draped the heavy cloak across her shoulders. She felt his gaze linger on her face, and his eyes crinkled at the side.

He spoke roughly, but his words were kind, and she was grateful He did not see the blush that formed.

"You look beautiful, Sansa." He told her gruffly, and she forced herself to smile.

Joffrey watched from the side, grinning evilly. He had placed a bet earlier that evening, and it was one she dreaded to think of. The fellow ladies of court had laughed and japed, "He'll break her before he has a chance to put a baby in her belly," or it was something else. Like shae had said, "He'll tear you near in half. He's not a man, He's a monster."

But when it was time for her to be taken to his chambers, where they would consummate their marriage, she lost all fear.

He was gentle, when taking off the restricting white layers of her dress, and his lips spoke kind words. He did not want to hurt her, she knew that, and he told her this so many times it made all doubt leave her mind.

"Sansa, How old are you?" He asked her at last, when he began to unlace his breeches. She swallowed, "I'm almost past my 16th nameday. My lord," she told him quietly.

He cursed at that, and sat back down on the chair. "You sleep in the bed, little bird. They wed me a child, and I know better than to defile something as innocent and pure as you." He shut his eyes sadly, and Sansa felt worried.

"I'm old enough, Sandor." She said softly, and stood. She sat herself down on his knee, and stroked the burnt flesh of his cheek. He shivered beneath her touch, and he grabbed her hand. "I know this, Sansa. But I want to wait, If I take you now . . . I fear you may never forgive me." He tried not to let his reason for refusing her show, and tears slud salty tracks down his skin.

She wiped them away, "I'm ready Sandor."

And he smiled, "But I'm not." And blew out the candle from beside.

And


	10. Chapter 10

"S-Sandor." Sansa whispered, her breath rising in the cold night air like smoke from the dark caverns of a dragons mouth. Sandor's hands were upon her; Rucking up her lace nightgown so it bunched around her hips, cupping her breast in his hand as he stroked between her legs. She didn't know what had came over him, "Sandor." She murmured, as he pressed hungry kisses to her cheek. He stroked her gently, rubbing small circles across her clit, and between her legs where her folds dripped and waited to be filled.

She rutted against his hand, grinding her hands as her pelvis rocked back and forth. She liked how his lips tasted of mint and sweet-summers wine, "Oh gods. I'm going to faint . . . I cant . . . Sandor." She cried, tears falling from eyelashes that fluttered like a butterfly's wings. He soothed her, pressing chaste kisses to her neck, face, collarbones; anywhere he could find where her skin was hot and flush, and feverishly red. Sandors words were calming, "You're alright. Sansa, look at me. Sansa," She turned to him.

Her lips were parted, a silent O of anticipation. He stroked her cheek, "I want you to enjoy this. Breathe, alright?" She nodded, nibbling the fleshy pink of her lip. His fingers drifted back to her mound, before he hesitantly plunged a finger, long and thick, into her northern lips. She shuddered, "Oh gods." and Sandor laughed; the faint whisper of his name causing him to smile. His motions were soft, tender, burningly pure as they swept and threatened to drown her in rapture.

Sansa flung her head back, "I like it. I like it. I like." She sobbed, tears streaming down a face that was contorted In lust. Sandor removed his hand from her sensitive mound, "Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. You're alright, little bird. You're alright," He murmured. Sansa felt him cup her cheek, pressing a kiss against her lips that were pouted and pink. He held her close, and Sansa could feel the hard tautness of muscle on his battle-worn chest. Sansa felt the calloused pad of his thumb brush away her tears, "I'm here. Little bird, I'm here."

Sansa swallowed back the sobs, her body twitching beneath his skilled fingers. His lips were soft against her throat, the half-burnt side slightly rougher than the rest. His stubble scratched her bosom, "I'm you're hound, Sansa."

Sansa replied a few moments later; eyes sweeping open and shut, as she clutched onto the lank strands of dark hair. She pulled him closer to her, smiling despite the overwhelming urge to sob. Her words were the whisper of a dragonflies wings, "I'm you're bird." Sandor nodded, rubbing the side of his face against her chest. He liked how soft she was, "And nothing may ever come between us."

Guys, I'm so sorry for being inactive. I've had a really rough time recently, and I forgot the password to my account (Oops) I also am struggling with school right now, and there has been lots of struggle with personal issues. I don't want to get into it all, But I promise I will continue to write more and appease the overwhelming urge for SanSan fanfiction SMUT (Emphasis on the smut) So . . . Bye guys, I'll be back soon.


	11. Chapter11

Days passed and left, a sudden surge of sparrows wings as each month, day and week flew by without ever giving her notice of their leave. Nights that were always dark and never bright surrounded her, and kept her safe. Men who were pretty and fair and undoubtably blonde haunted her dreams, and in her despair, her saviour from those bloodied and tormenting dreams was a man with a face no mother could ever hope to love.

And when she awoke soaked with sweat and tears, her mind and body afire with such flames not even water could withstand, he was there to soothe and sympathise with her.

He never asked what her dreams were of, but he guesesed and he wondered and he wished she would stop.

 _Go back to the wolves, silly girl. Go back to the wolves who you love so stupidly, and let me sleep._

Sandor arms were warm and welcoming, his snores heavy and thick and unwavering, the soft flesh of his scarred cheek brushing against her own, as his fingers intertwined and looped with hers.

Sansa fidgeted and moved, unwilling to sleep invade the dreaded dreams came back. "S-Sandor," She whispered. She tried to wriggle away from his grasp, out of the embrace he held her in so tightly.

"Ser Sandor?" When she uttered the word _Ser_ Sandor grumbled in his slumber, "I'm no Ser, little bird. Go to sleep, and let me hold you." He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent that imbedded itself in her skin.

 _Lemons and sugar sweetness, all curves and no edges. Soft and sweet, my little bird is._ Sandor pressed his lips against her shoulders, and she shivered despite the warmth of his touch. Sandor flopped her onto her back, "I want you." He murmured, kissing a path down the crevice between her bosom.

Sansa didn't say a word, "Will it make the bad dreams go away?" She asked him, guiding his head down to the small tuft of auburn hair above the apex of her legs.

Sandor chuckled to himself languidly, "it _might._ It might make you sleep soundly for once, without me having to comfort you." Sans A's breath hitches and rose and fell, all in one. His lips were at her mound, and he grumbled and mumbled words incoherent to her ears.

Sansa inhaled, "Go on." She murmured, letting her head fall back on the cushions and pillows and silk sheets of her bed. Sandor smiled, "Anything for you, little bird."

And the dreams went away.


End file.
